


Lifetimes

by combeferrer



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Reincarnation, Second person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-05 23:19:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/combeferrer/pseuds/combeferrer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sometimes, people live many lives until they get it right."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lifetimes

Sometimes, people live many lives until they get it right.  
In China in 504 B.C. you could have walked right by the person you are fated for (you did, he saw you, you didn’t.)(he always sees you, that is a constant).

In Rome in 33 A.D. you could have killed them(you did, it was a gladiator match.)(he didn’t raise his sword, you struck him down immediately.)(you died in the next battle, guilty for who you have killed, guilty for the mass of dark curls and worshipping eyes).  


In England in 1424 A.D. you could have kissed (you did, he was your servant, you kissed in the stables)(it was cold, you were shivering, he was warm and solid)(you were surrounded by horse shit).  


In Italy in 1658 A.D. you could have fucked (you did, you modeled for his sculpture nude)(you took him hungrily in his studio on the floor)(he took you hungrily against the wall)(before you walked out to never return).  


In France in 1832 A.D. you could have died together (you led a revolution, he followed)(you died for a cause, he died for you)(you held hands).  


And there were lifetimes in between when you didn’t even meet him, when you didn’t even get the chance to look at him.  
Those lifetimes are the worst.  


Yet, you have not gotten it properly correct, you have not lived a life with him that is happy and wonderful  
(You do not know that you are waiting only for him to reach a proper afterlife).  
(You do not know you have lived more than one lifetime).  


Sometimes you meet people that you think you have known before.  
Like Combeferre at the university library.  
(In New York in 1920 you shared an uncomfortable kiss at the park, before agreeing to be friends and friends alone).  
Or Courfeyrac at the local cafe.  
(In Massachusetts in 1718 you were children together).  
And the rest of your friends.  


They are all familiar to you, and this is why you gravitated towards them, this is why you became their friends. You seem to know them at first glance without truly knowing them at all.  
They surround you now, it is comfortable, you are comfortable (you are not comfortable).  
Though you are surrounded by close friends, you cannot help but feel that something is missing, that you are incomplete.  
(You feel this secretly at night when you are almost entirely complete after successful rallies and protests).  


You stare at the ceiling until you fall asleep and hear gunshots and unintelligible shouting that you cannot understand, but you feel it resonate deep within your soul. A hand reaches for you. The world fades into morning.  
You sit up quickly. The dreams that have haunted you since you were a child are growing more and more vivid, and you are sure that you can hear a familiar voice shouting something that sounds similar to “vive la France,” but you cannot be sure. Your high school French is rusty, but you are certain they are shouting “long live France,” but you are uncertain as to why.  
The pale morning light welcomes you. You rise from bed and ready yourself for the day.  


You attend your morning lecture on European history, taking careful notes and participating enthusiastically. Your teacher alludes briefly to an insurrection in France, and you cannot help but feel attached. You have always felt oddly attached to history, as if you had lived through several centuries and fought for several peoples and breathed the air in every continent and every decade.  
You dare not say these thoughts to anyone, for fear of blank stares of confusion or accusations of insanity.  
(You remember when you shared these thoughts with your mother when you were five years old and she told you that she was taking you to a therapist).  
(You learned quickly thereafter that somethings are meant to be shared, and others are for you and you alone).  
Once the lecture had ended, you could not stop thinking about the insurrection your teacher mentioned. It remained in your mind, and you had to learn more immediately, for your sanity.  


You grab your canvas messenger bag from the side of your chair and trot over to your professor’s desk.  
“Professor Valjean?”  
“Yes, Enjolras?”  
He looks up from his papers and looks at you.  
“When did that insurrection that you mentioned take place?”  
“1832. Interested in further research?” He asks.  
You nod in response.  
“The school’s library has a few books on the topic, I suggest you check them out.”  
“Thank you, professor.”  


You turn around and walk out of the classroom, set on a new destination.  
(The cogs of the universe are turning quickly in their places).  


The university library is massive. You met Combeferre here, who volunteers as a librarian on the weekends. He was behind the desk and you asked him where the books on Tienanmen Square were. He escorted you there, but not before telling you all his thoughts on the subject. You hit it off immediately and made plans to go to a museum or something as soon as possible.  


You walk into the large doors of the library and search for books on the subject. By now you have the library basically memorized and you are able to find the correct section with ease. The book you have chosen is a reference book, however, and you are unable to check it out. Though you have an in with the librarians (Combeferre has introduced you to his friend Cosette who also volunteers), you know neither of them would allow you to check it out.  
Reluctantly, you sit at a table and open the large book to a page on the correct year. You search through the pages until you find something under the bold heading “ **The June Rebellion** ”.  
(Something inside of you snaps into place, though you are not sure what that is).  
(A tenuous bond forms between your subconscious and conscious).  
You continue reading, toeing across the tightrope connection.  
You hear someone sitting down, you fall off the tightrope.  
(The strange disappointment is overwhelming).  


You look up to glare intimidatingly at the person who has sat down, but something changes.  
You see China in 504 B.C., a boy across the unpaved path who will not stop staring at you with wide eyes.  
You see wide eyes in Rome in 33 A.D., revering you entirely.  
You feel dry lips and icy air in England in 1424.  
You see Italy in 1658, pale moonlight draped over paler skin, you hear sharp breathes and whispered blasphemies.  
You see vivid red and outstretched hand in France in 1832, gunshots echoing in your ears and a smile gently curled across your face.  
You do not simply tiptoe gently across a tightrope. The sinew turns into a bridge, which you stride boldly across.  


He looks at you, and his eyes widen in recognition.  
You blink at him, unsure of what to say.  
“Hello.” You venture carefully.  
“Hey.”  
“Enjolras.” You tell him.  
“I know.”  
You breathe a sigh of relief.  


This is the start of the end of your life.


End file.
